St. Louis to Chicago (finally)

We made it! Holy Mary, there were moments I didn't think this would happen. I had furious desires to stay in many of the towns I visited, and other desires to push Katie out of the car when she made especially bad puns. Nonetheless, we have miraculously arrived. Let me tell you about our last day on the road.

We stayed at the Millennium Tower in St. Louis, right next to the Arch. It's pretty damn cool. We went there in the morning to ride the tram up to the top, where there's an observation room with windows peering out to St. Louis and the river. The view was great, but the tram itself was the best part. You sit in these little round, white capsules while it lurches you up the inside of the Arch. You get out on top, look around, and then go down the other side. I felt like I was inside an engineering experiment, which, now that I think about it, I was.
So the Gateway Arch is cool and all, but it does not put yummy in my tummy. A more important St. Louis destination is Ted Drewes's Frozen Custard. Frozen custard is a Route 66 tradition, besides being filled with sugar, so there was no way we were missing this. They make this shake called the Concrete which they turn upside down when they give it to you, just to show that it is, indeed, that thick. They were fantastic. Katie recommends the Tart Cherry. After our lunch of frozen desserts, we drove on to Springfield, Illinois. Illinois as a state is obsessed with Abraham Lincoln, so we obviously had to visit his tomb. There's a huge bust of him in front of the tomb, and people rub his nose for luck (it now seems as though he permanently has a very bad cold). They also leave pennies for him, which is a great offering. Give unto Lincoln what is Lincoln's, and to God that which is God's.
The tomb is beautiful and rather sad. Mary Todd and three of their four sons are buried there. Mary Todd was an interesting woman; three of her sons died young (at 4 years, 12 years, and 18 years old), and she held seances to try to reach them. She was a little crazy, but who wouldn't be after the death of three sons? It's all very moving. You can see why they're nuts about Lincoln: he was a great man.

After the sadness and patriotism, we moved on to fried food, another American institution. Cozy Dogs opened in 1946 right here in Springfield after they became popular at USOs during the war. They are very tasty, and the restaurant is filled with weird Cozy Dogs memoribilia. We give it five stars.

After Springfield, we drove almost straight to Chicago (with one stop at an antiques mall where we met some very funny older gentlemen and I bought a lot of lidded Pyrex dishes). I'm going to get the key to my new apartment this morning. Yay!

Tulsa to St. Louis

This was possibly the best day of our trip for seeing weird roadside attractions, especially two that for which we've been holding our breath. First up: the Catoosa Whale. It was built in the 70's, apparently as an anniversary present (I have no idea what that means). There's a dock inside the whale, two slides, and a jump-off out the tail. It was closed down in 1988, but continues to rock the Oklahoma byways.

Next up, a little ways along the road, is Katie's favorite: Ed Galloway's Totem Pole Park. Galloway started it in the 1930's and worked on it for the next forty years, until his death. Huge concrete totem poles are decorated with portraits of famous Native Americans along with what can only be described as "weird shit." I like the owls.This is the tallest totem pole. A restoration society founded to bring back the Totem Park's glory has restored its bright colors. Also, there is what can only be a Martian painted on one side.
Next, Oklahoma threatened to eat us. Look at these clouds and try to tell me they're not ominous:
A freakishly violent thunderstorm ensued, and we got kind of lost in it and the Oklahoma rural roads. We made it, though, all the way to the Columbus, Kansas and their town history museum and geneological library. When we ran in out of the hot rain, a nice Midwestern lady informed us that the Museum was closed on Mondays. HEARTBREAK. I talked to her for a minute while Katie was in the restroom, and she took pity on we poor foreigners. She opened the museum and turned off the alarm system so that we could see this:

THAT'S RIGHT. IT'S THE GIANT BALL OF STRING. I know you've been waiting for it. Let me tell you, it is indeed giant, and that's about all there is to say about it. Doesn't mean it's not COMPLETELY AWESOME.

Amarillo to Tulsa

Day 7

Well, the mile count is up to about 2200 now, and I cannot tell you how sick of driving I am. But we only have two more days: St. Louis, then Chicago. I think I can, I think I can, I think I'll shoot someone, I think I can...

But to lighten up your day, there is nothing like seeing a giant cross on the side of the highway around Groom, Texas. I'd read about this thing in my guidebook, but I had no idea until we were approaching it that this was my image source for one of my weavings: it's the cross in the hand of St. Margaret of Antioch. I found a snapshot of it on the innerwebs, and I used it because it had interesting shading. The place itself, with the ministry attached, is quite evangelist-creepy. There's a shrine for aborted children, for example. But it's none the less fascinating, that people would spend this much time and money building a cross simply meant to attract visitors. I see this all the time with Catholic cathedrals, and I usually take it as a matter of course, but this was different. It's a little too close to home, I think, a little too much of my childhood.
And then I bought a magnet and some Tall Cross Triple Berry Preserves (?!?) at the gift shop. Katie and I were talking about our mixed feelings in supporting a place like this; on the one hand, I think it's valuable as a tangible piece of our religious culture and I want it to be maintained, but on the other, I'm afraid of other uses to which my money could be put. I don't want to evangelize people or support an abortion clinic bombing. It's sticky, and I don't have a real answer.
Stop 2 today was a great art deco café/filling station from the 1930's in Shamrock, Texas. It's so beautiful, and it's been amazingly well-restored. Now, because I failed to namecheck Tori Amos in my previous mention of Winslow, Arizona, I have to tell you that part of my reason for wanting to see this is another Tori Amos song. In fact, (U Drop Inn at the ) Dew Drop Inn was the name of one of her tours. I KNOW you don't care, and yet I am compelled to tell you. I am also compelled to tell you about one of the funniest things I've read in my guidebook so far: in Shamrock, all the men grow their beards for Saint Patrick's Day, and if you don't, there is a price put on your head. I would live in this town for that one and only reason, and it would be totally worth it.

Our last stop for the day was the National Route 66 Museum in Clinton, Oklahoma. It's slick and shiny, with interactive exhibits and fully restored cars (along with a full-scale restored 50's diner). I absolutely loved the 40's Ford roadster...it weighs 3000 pounds and probably gets about 5 miles to the gallon, but it is PRETTY AND I WANT ONE. So anyone who has yet to give me a birthday gift...

Santa Fe to Amarillo

This morning Katie and I wandered around Santa Fe for a while and went to the Loretta Chapel. It has a "Miraculous Stairway"--it winds around twice on its way to the choir loft without any visible means of support. Adding to the "mystery" of good engineering, the carpenter disappeared after six months it took him to make it without payment. The guard rail was added later, because that is a crazy staircase to make nuns climb without anything to hold onto.
But now comes the great part: Cadillac Ranch. I've been waiting for this one. In 1974, one man (along with some help) upended 10 1960's Cadillacs into the ground (at the exact angle of the Egyptian pyramids, by the way). It's a kind of homage to the golden age of Route 66, and it's also a fun and freaky thing to do. Since then, people come by every day and paint whatever they want on them.


But I am no mere spray-paint fly-by-nighter, oh no. I cut a stencil for the brand-new website that I'm starting up with Katie, www.dilettantearmy.com, that we can use to detail the artistic leanings of otherwise reasonable human beings. It's in red on the car (twice because we screwed it up the first time, in true dilettante fashion).
We can't decide on a slogan. Here are some of the options; you can weigh in if you like.

1. Dilettante Army: It won't pay the rent.
2. Dilettante Army: Conquering the world if we feel like it.
3. Dilettante Army: It's what we do...when we're not doing something else.

Durango to Santa Fe

When we left Durango yesterday, we headed south and wound our way through the Jemez mountains in New Mexico. These are the ruins of a 17th-century adobe church build by Spanish missionaries. I'd tell you about it, but Katie informs me that these posts are boring, so I'm letting you slide THIS ONCE. But don't get used to it; I will soon be telling you all about something obscure you don't care about. Don't be lazy.


We got in early to Santa Fe for a true birthday evening. We stayed at the La Fonda Hotel, one of teh first inns at the end of the Santa Fe trail. After we went for sangria and tapas, we went to the New Mexico History Museum, where they were having a kind of fair. This woman showed me how to scrape an elk hide; it is very difficult. That stuff is no joke. (by the way, you tan these things with pig brains. Who knew?).
We had a fabulous dinner with a great champagne. Thanks for everyone's 30th birthday wishes--I had an awesome day full of obscure knowledge and wine. That's like Valhalla for me.

Cortez to Durango (Mesa Verde)

Yesterday morning, Katie and I left Cortez early to get to Mesa Verde. We had "seen" it on our fruitless journey into the park the night before, but let me tell you, it's much more visible in the daytime. At night, we saw a deer and a couple of coyotes, but in the morning we saw this:
The canyons are long, steep, and deep. Everywhere you look there are cliff dwellings built on the sandstone ledges that riddle the canyon walls. There are literally thousands of archeological sites here, but we only climbed down to two of them. After being somewhat frightened by the taxidermied puma in the visitor's center, we headed to Spruce House.

This is the most well-preserved of all the sites. There are about 150 rooms, and the peak estimated population is 70-90 people. The Ancentral Puebloans lived at Mesa Verde from 550-1280 AD, but the cliff dwellings were only constructed starting in the 11th century (before that, they were living in pit houses on the mesa top). Anthropologists theorize that they started moving down the cliffs because of overcrowding and/or for defense. The defense part is tricky, because although they built towers that look like they're made for archers or lookouts, there's actually no evidence of warfare anyware around here. These people were heavily influenced by Chaco culture to the south, and they seemed to be peaceful hunters, farmers and traders.

This is a photo of one of the restored kiva roofs that form the main courtyards (the wooden ladder leads down to it). The kivas are round underground rooms; if the modern descendants of the Ancentral Puebloans (the Hopi and the Zia, among other tribes), they were used for ceremonial purposes. The sipapu ("navel") is an important part of each kiva; it's a small circular indentation on the floor that symbolizes the navel of the earth through which humans, demons, and corn have all come to the earth.

ANYWHOSITS. I can hear you falling asleep from here. Our second visit was to the Cliff Palace, which is the largest and most extensively restored site at Mesa Verde. The cave goes back about sixty feet, and it looks like the seep springs from which they got their water were back there. Cliff Palace seems to be a spiritual center of some kind, because there are 21 kivas* here. It could have been an administrative center as well. There are over 200 rooms, but peak population is estimated at 90-120 people; they couldn't possibly have used all that space themselves, so it's likely that this was used as a gathering place for visiting traders and the other settlements as well as the main residents.

Our ranger guide gave us what speculative information he could, but he said "Really, all we have are rocks and mud, and a little bit of wood. So...tour's over." Cliff Palace was abandoned by 1280, and all of the Ancentral Puebloans moved south. The main reasons for the mass migration seem to be a growing population, the depletion of their resources from living there so long (lack of game, tired soil), and a 25-year drought that started in 1226. It's weird, though, that EVERYONE left, when Mesa Verde could certainly have supported a smaller population, so there were probably cultural reasons for the move as well.
That ends today's unsolicited lecture. I should inform you that I am now an official Junior Ranger. Katie and I filled out activity and quiz booklets, turned them into a ranger, swore an oath, and were handed our badges. The oath was actually quite comprehensive, and we take our new duties very seriously as part of the 10-and-up age bracket of Junior Rangers. Ranger Eli said that he's never seen adults do this, but we can't figure out why not. There are fun games, and you get a prize at the end! If they taught art history like that, I would pay much better attention.

*Note that I did not fall into a kiva, although Katie was placing sizable bets on that probability.

Flagstaff to Cortez

When we left Flagstaff, this was our first stop, the Meteor City Crater. It was the first "proven" meteor crater, and it's the NASA benchmark for all other craters. It's enormous--4000 feet across and 570 feet deep. You can hike around the rim, but needless to say we skipped that.
We did stand on the rim and say "Wow. Big." In 1938, in true Route 66 fashion, someone founded Meteor City right next door and built a tourist trap.


But OUR next stop was Winslow, Arizona, which has done it's own capitalizing on a meager claim to fame with the Eagles song "Takin' it Easy." Now, instead of just standing on any old corner in Winslow, Arizona and waiting for a girl in a flatbed truck, you can stand with the official statue! I want you, dear readers, to pay especial attention to our stylish cowboy hats. We like to think that we need nothing but those and our toothbrushes on this roadtrip, but the reality is somewhat different. We are not, however, carrying our friends' various suggestions of guns, baseball bats, or tasers; this led to our temptation to stop at Knife City.
We had lunch at La Posada, the Harvey House designed by Mary Jane Colter. It's beautiful, and the restaurant is fantastic. There, I resisted buying an ENTIRE SHRINE to the Virgin of Guadalupe. You may now applaud my restraint. I'll wait here.


After Winslow, it was on to Joseph City, where you can see this billboard:It's possibly the most famous billboard on Route 66. You can see why, can't you: it's awesome. You can also sit on the plastic jackrabbit. At that moment, we were battling a large weather system (one of the five literary dramatic conflicts), and were unable to take flattering pictures while wearing our skirts. Just imagine a large jackrabbit with a saddle--I get that unsolicited mental image all the time, myself.

It was then time to leave Route 66 for a time and head north towards Mesa Verde. We stopped at Four Corners, which is just that. It's in the middle of nowhere (but you can buy flatbread and get a pony ride, so it's probably worth it).
We trudged on to Mesa Verde, where I made reservations at the Far View Lodge inside the park. They, however, lost my reservation. I hate them just a little. But we backtracked to Cortez and found a Comfort Inn, and headed out to the park yesterday.

L.A. to Flagstaff

My people, it has been a long three days. Fun, but long. Plus, you would not believe the scarcity of internet connections in the Southwest. Yes, I know it's a desert...BRING ME MY EMAIL.

So I've posted a bunch of photos on Facebook, but I'll fill you in on the highlights of the trip so far. Tuesday, after leaving Jessie's house, we continued to talk in the voice that Jessie uses to translate her dog's thoughts (this has yet to cease). This is Tuesday, our first day on Route 66.

First up, just outside Helendale, CA: the Bottle Tree ForestIt was made by some random woman. I love that people do this, just making weird crap that nobody has to like but them and then lodging it at the side of the road. And then the rest of us get to marvel at it. This tree is my favorite because it has an old sewing machine at the top.

Next up on lovely Route 66, lovely Barstow, CA.

There's a funky little museum there on the history of both Route 66 and Barstow. It's housed in an old Harvey House at the railroad station. The Harvey Houses were built by Fred Harvey beginning in the 1890's for the Santa Fe Railroad; they're grand hotels with formal dining restaurants, meant to bring civilization to the Wild West. The architecture of some of them, like the Mary Jane Colter design we saw in Winslow, is phenomenal. Next to the Route 66 museum there's a railroad museum. This train matches my dress, and I appreciate that.

Further on: Oatman, AZ.

This was a gold and copper mining town during the boom, but became a ghost town when the ore dried up. The burros used in the mines stayed in the region and turned feral. Some of the original buildings remain, but most of them have been reconstructed so that the town can serve as both a tourist trap and a movie set. You can feed the burros, though, so they come right up to you. They all wanted to come with me, as most animals do, but I had to say "No. You are a burro. You will eventually turn on me." They were understandably heartbroken.


This is a restored gas station near Oatman. I have little to say about it, except that I really enjoy Mobil gas signs. People do stuff like this all over Route 66, and I think it's a healthy mixture of hustle for tourist cash and honest enthusiasm for the local history.
We ended the day in Flagstaff, AZ. We stayed at a great historic-y hotel, the Hotel Monte Vista. It is lovely place, and we got to stay in the John Wayne suite. John Wayne was the first to report a particular haunting here once (there are many), which is frickin' fantastic. It's a phantom bellboy who rings the bell at Room 210 and then vanishes. SOMEONE was messing with him, and I sincerely hope it was actually a phantom bellboy.

In Flagstaff

This is the John Wayne Suite, and I am testing the Internet connection...those are the plans to his yaucht, the Wild Goose.


--Wandering Post

Christ on a Stick, it is EARLY

Day two.

Katie and I left San Jose yesterday afternoon on our way to Discover America.  We don't think any of the predictions have yet come to pass; there was a grass fire on the pass by Gilroy, and there was some police action, but we weren't actually involved.  If we had SET the fire, or were consumed in an inferno and killed and/or rescued in a spectacular manner, then it would could as a run-in with the law.  So stayed tuned for more direct police action yet to come.

We made it down to LA yesterday evening, where we descended like pasty white locusts on the home of Jessie Lee, Chris LaMons, and a 95 lb dog named Indiana Bones.  Indiana likes to lick my feet.  A lot.

Since Jessie and Chris were tired from their week in St. Martin (poor things), and we were a little giddy from too many hours in the car, we ordered in Chinese food and drank a bottle of Cakebread (thanks, Dad, for your unknowing gift).  We alternately wondered over the Vintage Vinyl satellite radio station (when was the last time YOU heard Deep Purple?) and tried to get the dog to LAY THE HELL DOWN.  He is the sweetest, slobbery-est dog imaginable, but he would like to lick you all the time.  In fact, if you would just stick your hands and feet inside his huge mouth, that would be awesome.  Thanks.

On to Arizona!

On the Road Again

The urge to wander is once again upon me. The process of moving to Chicago starts today, and I gotta tell you, I have some seriously mixed feelings. I'm glad to be on my way, I'm excited about the program at the Art Institute, I'm excited about the road trip...but I am very, very sad to be leaving my family. We all had dinner last night, and leaving Kevin and Kelley's house to drive away on my own was difficult. I can't lie: there was some crying on the way home.

But enough of that sentimental crap! Katie Carter and I embark on our estimated 9-day road trip today. We're going down to LA today, and tomorrow we pick up Route 66, which we'll follow all the way to Chicago. We have exciting things to see and do along the way, and hopefully we won't kill each other. I'm thinking...Vegas odds...20:1 for actual bloodshed, 7:1 that someone will be left at a truckstop. Katie's sister Meagan had a dream that I was alone at a bus stop crying, and she is our designated trip psychic, so it doesn't look so good for me. Also predicted: 3 fights, 2 meltdowns, 1 run-in with the law, and 1 vomiting fit.

Freeze tag

...is a severely underrated sport.


--Wandering Post

I'm back!

I'm Stateside! I got back on Friday night. I'm staying at my sister's house in Menlo Park, hanging out with my nieces and nephews. My parents come back on Thursday, so the whole family will be here. There's a little bit of reverse culture shock, but everything's so busy here that I don't really have time to think about it. Ellie's watching TV-- a rare break in the stream of talking. I'm sad to have had to leave Paris, but I'm equally glad to be back.



--Wandering Post

Notre Dame des Victoires

Apparently a huge pilgrimage site, right in the 2nd arrondisement. Offically called by the Vatican "a refuge for sinners." I think this is the most candles I've ever seen at a shrine: it has a reputation for being extremely efficacious. Plus: shiny.


--Wandering Post

Yeah, I totally climbed that...

THIS RIGHT HERE:
This, my friends, is the Château de Peyrepertuse, in the middle of nowhere (also known as the Razes region of the Languedoc). It is on a really frickin' tall mountain. And no, I did not climb all the way from the river valley. I did, however, climb for half an hour over some very slippery trail in some ferocious wind and rain. As usual, I neglected to bring any practical clothing. But sometimes, kids, you have to strap on your ballet flats, pull your cashmere throw over your head, and man up.
The Château was occupied by the Cathars during the Albigensian crusade. They lasted a decade or so because the local lord was a sympathizer (and had ties to the crown of Aragon), but eventually everything falls to the Church. But really, it must have been a crappy place to live--all they had were rocks and heresy.

Heretical Tapestries!

How exciting is it to have a beautifully preserved tapestry of mysterious origins and possibly mystical themes? I know, I know: YOU'RE PSYCHED. Yesterday, my mom and I continued our tour of Languedoc-Roussillon by heading to Narbonne. The 13th century cathedral is impressive in itself, especially because it was unceremoniously bricked up halfway through the nave when people got tired of building it. There's a series of Aubusson tapestries hanging in the side chapels, and a couple of impressive 15th century Brussels tapestries showing King David. In the treasury room, there are two Flemish tapestries: one shows a kind of Purgatory, and the other depicts the Creation. Those three robed men who appear everywhere are a bizarre depiction of the Trinity, occupied with creating the universe. The Purgatory tapestry is even weirder: Vulcan, the Roman god, is at his forge in the sky, sending down rays of lightning to a bunch of people drowning in the sea. The people are labeled, and among them are Cleopatra, the city of Antioch, and Helena (mother of Constantine). What they all have in common, no one can figure out. There are symbols that hint at an unknown thread of mysticism, though, and that's more fun than I can stand.
Today, we leave our very own castle (of which I am undoubtedly the princess) to go south towards Collioure. We plan on seeing a lot of ruined castles (of which I might be the princess as well: stay tuned) and ending up at the beach.

April in Paris

The cliché about spring in Paris being a quasi-mystical experience is mostly a bunch of hooey. As a counterargument (to myself), I present to you: ducklings. These little darlings live in the pond in the center of the Square des Templars. Long ago, before they were driven bankrupt and then burned at the stake, the Templars had their French headquarters here. Now, a duck family and lots of flowers are making much better use of it.
I don't know how I'm going to survive Chicago, because I am absurdly glad at all the blossoming trees, new leaves, and faint snatches of sun here after only two months of grey weather. Just grey, not even snowing and freezing off my extremities. It's going to be a long road, people. Luckily, I don't have to think about that right now, because my lovely mother is meeting me for a week in the Languedoc region in the south of France. Medieval ruins + sites from religious wars + beach = my perfect vacation.

So it's true: Katie has dumped me for the United States. I just got off the phone with her, and she's landed in San Francisco. We had a lovely time, and her air mattress will miss her.
On Thursday, Katie met me after school and we walked through the Jardin de Luxembourg. This week was actually rather warm, and it was a good time to do it. We walked down a bit to the Closerie des Lilas, a famous café where many famous authors have written famous books. We kept meaning to take an entire tour of Places Where Hemingway Put His Ass, but this was our only day of it. Katie's Frommer's informed us that in Hemingway's poorer student days, he would walk a pram into the Jardin de Luxembourg and wring the necks of unfortunate pigeons, which he would then hide in the pram and take home to cook. He wrote The Sun Also Rises on the terrace of the Closerie (where Katie also studiously recorded things in her notebook).
Making this afternoon all the more lively and all the more French, a student protest was taking place all down the Boulevard St. Michel, which passes both the Gardens and the Closerie. We were separated from a very loud bunch of chanting people by a juniper hedge. Juniper is not a good soudproofer.
Still, we were not nearly as French as the man we passed on the way, taking a break from the protest and chatting with his friends while drinking white wine out of a bottle and smokind a cigarette. French civil disobedience is terribly civilized.

Sunday Dinner

There are many lovely people in my class, but chief amongst them is Hannah. I can say that, because none of them know the URL for this blog. This is Hannah with her partner Jason and their lovely 1-year-old daughter Naomi. We had what is becoming our traditional boozy weekend lunch yesterday. Katie's come along for the last two, and she might be as close to adopting this family as her own as I am. Let me tell you about them.
Hannah has a scientist father who has invested in many a start-up research project over the years. Having a serial start-up father myself, I can relate. Her father, several years ago, was close to bankrupting himself over a particular agricultural product when Hannah and her sister decided to buy him out, giving him money with which to retire and giving themselves a business. It went rather well, and they sold the company two years ago. Since then, they've been traveling from their home base outside of Toronto (Jason is Canadian, Hannah is British but has lived in Canada for many years) to various exotic destinations. As of now, they're here, where Hannah is taking the course at the Sorbonne and Jason is tending Naomi in the mornings. Jason is very funny: a dry, kind of dark sense of humor. Naomi is a little ham who eats as much as she can stuff in her face and cracks herself up constantly. She's also a very entertaining dancer.
So last Sunday we set ourselves the project of a truly French Sunday meal. In France, as in certain parts of the US, all of the extended family gathers on Sunday for lunch, which lasts just about all day long. Ours lasted for six hours and several bottles of wine, so I think we did pretty good. Hannah made grilled white asparagus, beef bourgougnion, and tarte aux citrons (a French lemon-custard tart). Pretty damn French, right? Annie, our lovely Chinese friend, passed out on the couch after two glasses of wine, which is admittedly a lot for her, but the rest of us powered through. Katie did a lot of weaving on the way home, but I got her back here. She flopped down on the bed, without even taking off her shoes, and slept for hours. We may have to build up to the French thing...

L'Opera Bastille

Tonight, finally, the ballet. We saw John Neumeier's choreography of Mahler's Third Symphony. It was very focused on the lines made by the dancers: they would generally move, then hold the pose while others changed around them, giving the stage a kind of kaleidescope effect. The first two movements used all male dancers, and the athleticism was spectacular. It's also the first time I've been to the Opera Bastille, and while it may lack the charm and the grandeur of the Palais Garnier, it's a well-functioning opera house. The stages revolve in all four theaters, so that while one stage is set up for a certain ballet, the other side of that stage can be dressed or used for rehearsal. The aucoustics are fantastic, and so are all of the sight lines.
Our sight line included two men sitting right in front of us, separated by a woman who accompanied one of them. The guy on our left turned on his cell phone so that he could use the light to see his program, and the guy on our right reached over and slapped his hand. So the cell-phone-guy put said cell phone up to the other guy's face TWICE and got it slapped away. First of all, let me assure you that these were men in at least their sixties, and not 10-year-old boys (as one might assume). Also, note that cell-phone-guy made his move not just once, which was ballsy enough, but twice. I would have started laughing out loud if I wasn't absolutely sure that I, too, would get slapped.

Notably Gruesome

Today, Katie and I went to the Musée Histoire de la Medecine. It's small, only one long room, but there are any number of grimly fascinating things. They have the surgical kit from Napoleon's autopsy, old medical devices that look like they might kill you, and this lovely specimen:
Sorry, not a very good picture. Lots of glare. But you can obviously see the mummified foot bound in silver in the middle. Now, prepare yourself: that mosaic IS NOT tile: it is made of vertabrae, four ears, and other assorted bones all grouted with dried blood, bile, and pus. I'll just leave you to ponder that.

The Acclaimed Paris Flea Markets

You know how everyone who has lived in/been to/heard of Paris sings the mighty praises of its flea markets? While that's mostly a load of crap, because Parisian dealers are not stupid and will not give you valuable antiques for, say, 2 euros, there are exceptions. Today Katie and I went to the Marché aux Puces de Clingancourt. First finds: a beautiful 1930's Bakelite necklace and a 1860's shellac hair pin. The store I bought them in just opened today, lucky enough, and the two men who own the shop were so pleased to see us that they spent quite a while talking to us about the various types of plastics used in antique jewelry, using books to fill in where my broken French failed us. Lots of fun. Their website is www.les2collectionneurs.com, if you would like to see their beautiful things. But soft, what is this in Stall 34? It's a mid-19th century lacquered sewing box in beautiful condition. I loved it even before I saw this:Yes, indeed, those are my initials engraved on the lid. How JEALOUS are you right now?
So now I, too, get to sing the (somewhat more reasoned) song of the flea-market-lovers, because I have my very own treasure to bring back. Or rather, to bring to my new home in Chicago. I don't know where I'll be living, but I assure you that the sewing box will look perfect there.

In the Hall of Mirrors, One Sees Only One's Self

On Thursday, I played hooky (again) so that Katie and I could go to Versailles. It's impressive, as it's meant to be. They did a humongous restoration of the Hall of Mirrors, but it did not do much to improve the quality of the glass. But blurry or not, that's us, with our cameras and audioguides in full tourist mode.
After finishing up at the Château, Katie wanted to go out to the Grand and Petit Trianons. Since it was ass-cold outside, I suggested we take the little train and save ourselves the half-hour walk. But no, Katie says, you're lazy, let's walk. So we walk, but by the time we get there, noses numb, they've just closed, giving us the treat of a half-hour walk back. On that walk, I hurt my foot and it starts to rain heavily. Katie, being a smart girl, stayed about ten paces in front of me the entire time in order to stay out of bludgeoning range.

Sainte Chapelle

So Katie Carter got here on Sunday. She's been a trooper of a tourist. Yesterday, she climbed Notre Dame in the morning, and after I was out of school, we went to Sainte Chapelle. Katie was appropriately impressed, and I was as fascinated as ever. It's so PRETTY and SHINY. It wasn't that sunny of a day, but that was kind of for the best, because you can really see the images in the stained glass without blinding yourself.
My favorite place is the canopy of honor for the Crown of Thorns (no longer extant. Well, not that they had the real one in the first place, but you know what I mean). I find it fitting that a man (St. Louis, or Louis IX of France) who spent his life having people murdered in the Crusades would take a trophy that also would have blood on it. I hadn't noticed before how many of the scenes in the windows are of Saracens being beaten or beheaded. But for such a bloody man, he made a pretty place.

The Daily Grind

I know I've been AWOL. Really, I suspect that it doesn't matter much because my parents are the only ones who read this, and I talk to them all the time anyway. But there hasn't been a whole lot to report. The romance of Paris has subsided into a daily routine of French grammar and unpronouncable vowel sounds. This classroom is where I spend my days. Let me break it down for you.

7AM--Get up. It's really freakin' early.
8--Take the metro to school.
8:15--Climb up four floors to my classroom.
8:30-10:30--Grammar with these lovely people and my lovely teacher, Mdme Paquellin.
10:30-11:30--Mass migration of the entire class to a café for an hour break.
11:30-12:30--Phonetics class (with a separate teacher), where we repeat things until they approximate the correct sounds.
12:30-2:30--Back up the stairs, two more hours of grammar.

After class, I run errands, go to the grocery store, occasionally make my way somewhere interesting, or go back home to read my book. Then I have dinner, watch TV episodes downloaded from iTunes, do my homework, go to bed.

I should note that while this all might sound crushingly boring, it's actually not (well, except from 1:30 to 2:30. By that time, I really want out of that place.). The people who make up my class are from all over the world, and I find each one fascinating. We have a really good time; we speak English when we're not in class, because while only a few of us are native English speakers, everyone is pretty fluent. Everyone is fun and welcoming. We laugh a lot, we go for coffee or drinks, and we go out on the weekends together. It's quite a little expat community. I'll tell you all about them.

Chenonceau

The Chateau de Chenonceau has massive gardens, and they put new spectacular flower arrangements in twice a week. There's a beautiful series of hunting-scene tapestries. Back to Paris now.



--Wandering Post

Saw Leonardo da Vinci's tomb today at the Chateau d'Amboise. He lived here for the


last three years of his life (until 1512).


--Wandering Post

A Country Weekend

At a restored chateau in Amboise (in the Loire valley)


with my mother. It's lovely here, and warm, and the air is clean. So nice to be out of Paris for a couple of days.


--Wandering Post

OMGPONIES!!!

There's a Russian fairy tale called The Firebird. In it, a prince sees the Firebird, and she blesses him with the gift of animal speech. I seem to have repressed the memory of the Firebird, but animals often talk to me. Amazingly, they all seem to talk along the same lines. They like me, they want to play, to come home with me, etc. I can only infer that I am extremely attractive to many species, including, but not limited to: otters, bunnies, cats, small dogs, large dogs, kangaroos, some kinds of fish, and especially horsies.